Sherlock's nightmare
by Awesomelock
Summary: Sherlock has a nightmare. Spoilers for TRF.


A/N- Hi. Watching the Olympics- makes me twisty: Inspired this.

Warnings: Spoilers for TRF, some sort of light Shwatsonlock , and dead people. (Violence.) Rated T for a description of a dead bloke.

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_A rusty old P&O ferry bobbed up and down on the icy, browny- green shores of Dover. I glanced to my left- a dusty, large, white rock obscured my view of anything interesting. People were taking photos of it, saying how 'magnificent' it was. What dull life's they must live. _

_The image was soon replaced by a dirty alley way infested by unidentifiable small mammals and dangerous insects- I pushed past someone high on cannabis. I considered how much money I had. I pushed the thought to the side- no. I had something I needed to do. Plus, it's cheaper in London if you know who you're talking to._

_Then the barren, bleak, desolate country side of some country in Europe. What was it called? _

_Then the mountains in Tibet, China. Less dusty then elsewhere- I'd give them that._

_Then the boring country side of France, rounded off with one of those beaches with plants growing out of the grey sand- suitably matching the sky. It seemed like I was in England again in places. I didn't miss it much. I never sat in the moon light, gazing up at the stars and sighed longingly. _

_People came next- from the first man to kill on the list to the fat guy on the plane on the way back- and all the old ladies and fussy teenagers in the middle._

_A ragged looking bald man- half shaven facial hair. Dark circles were doing nothing to improve the deep set eyes he wore. He was the first one- a hand to hand fight in an abandoned warehouse. It ended with a BANG._

_The echo had barely finished when the image of the next person- a woman with hair pulled back into a tight bun- not a strand of hair stray. The acidic taste of the poison that killed her burned in my mouth. She wouldn't have tasted anything- no, the taste was reserved for me._

_The tearing sound of flesh as a knife sunk into the 34 year old doctor. He had a family. It was just ordinary people I was killing. No one evil- well, the first person was questionable-_

_SMASH! The sound of their body flying through a glass window and plummeting towards the ground. I hadn't intended to kill them this way-far too messy. Plans go wrong and plan B was always straight forward, 'Destroy'._

_That was true wherever I was. The glass hit the pavement first- the sound like a rain maker at primary school, followed by the deafening beat of the bass drum in the music room. Gravity is, very much, a real force, I realized._

_SPLASH! One of them was just pushed out to sea- off the edge of a boat. It was risky if they survived, but the location made the odds of that minimal. If it's cold enough for platforms of thin ice to form, it's probably too cold to go swimming._

_A haunting murder, a coma patient lying soundlessly in a lone hospital room- an empty syringe poked out of him, my retreating footsteps the only noise until the long beeeeeep._

_And the image of his face burnt. Not in a Moriarty-esque fashion where my heart sizzles and everyone worries for John._

_No._

_My heart stopped._

The ceiling was the first thing I saw, a shade paler grey then the black blur everything else seemed to be. The night outside was a dark one.

The moon was obscured by thick black clouds- and judging by the shade I'd say it was bad news for any limestone statues in London. And it appeared the final street light had just flickered off. Probably stolen by the next wannabe-criminal-master-mind to light up the side of a mountain to anger the livestock.

It's funny where your mind goes when fear takes over.

I was suddenly aware of my faster the normal and out of character breathing. A sudden reminder of how human I was. Breathing- isn't that what humans do? The only explanation that I'd be breathing is that I have a heart to pump the blood carrying the oxygen around. So if I didn't have a heart, then I wouldn't be breathing.

Which leads onto my point about a raised heartbeat. I thought it had stopped already.

Through fear.

I could see his grey face and rotting skin- forcibly pulled back into a grimace by the shrinking, decomposing muscle. His eyes would have long gone cloudy and been eaten by various organisms. That didn't stop his empty eye sockets from haunting me. But it wasn't the dodgy looking tacky horror film image that scared me- it was his face before all this that scared me.

Wrong choice of word: Scared, no. I wasn't scared. I was regretful- which is as worse as fear, but different. There was an impending feeling of doom, but it wasn't really that which raised my heart beat.

I realized I had been screaming. Not words or sentences or anything remotely legible, but I had been screaming. Gurgles and groans and grunts- fractions of words- like an animal.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed as he burst through my door, his gun clutched readily, the art of discretion obviously lacking. He looked at me, and so did his gun, before realizing what had actually happened.

I saw relief, almost- I think. Probably just masking his disappointment that I could be so weak.

I wiped a cool sweat from my forehead. I am Sherlock, and Sherlock doesn't get nightmares. I felt something on my cheek, I thought it was blood at first. But then I realized and felt so humiliated.

John pulled on the light. The dark seemed to make it worse.

It was like being dead.

Not that the suddenly blinding light did anything for my impending headache.

"Sherlock?" John asked, this time without his gun being raised to an invisible enemy that threatened my heart beat.

"John." I said, trying to sound strong, but my voice just came out as a high pitched whine. I focused on calming my breathing. I don't think I screamed as much as I thought I had, looking back on it.

There was an awkward silence, where John tucked his gun somewhere and contemplated what to say.

"D'you want to talk about it?" He mumbled. I looked up at him. He'd probably be sick if he heard what it was about.

"Maybe." I said. I didn't want to say no. I didn't want to say yes.

John walked over to me, then decided to perch himself on the edge of my bed, probably feeling awkward towering above me and I cowered in my bed.

"What was it about?" John asked.

"My time… away." I said, carefully wording my reply. What was I supposed to say? The people I killed when I was dead?

John took a breath then told me to go on.

"It was the people I killed." I spoke bluntly.

"You had to kill them. They would have killed if you hadn't."

"They were just normal people." I defended. "Not that I care for normal people." I tried to sound like my normal self, but I couldn't. I was weak. My point was backed up as a lone tear streaked down my face.

There was a long silence.

Suddenly, John pulled me into a hug. It was scary at first- a hug. A cuddle. But eventually it felt like the right thing to do and I wrapped my arms around him. I might have cried a little bit.

"Do you want to, you know, sleep in my room?" John asked, trying to sound manly as he pulled back from the cuddle, trying to wipe the tears off my face, but only succeeding in smearing them. I didn't mind.

"Maybe." I whispered. John smiled, knowingly. I vowed to myself I would never have a nightmare or be weak again; just to knock that smug smile of Johns face.

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Fin.

A/N- This is probably quite boring and ooc… I like to think Sherlock would be OOC after killing lots of people and having a nightmare about it, but you can think differently ^^

Awkward fluff and strange descriptions of dead people and all.


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